


The Wrong Hand

by WeirdDaydreamingFangirl



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Beginning in Season 7 Episode 3, Canon-Divergent...Almost? Sort-of?, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Jaime-centric, No JB til later D:, Season 7 Parody, halloween fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-03 23:37:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16335452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeirdDaydreamingFangirl/pseuds/WeirdDaydreamingFangirl
Summary: Jaime panicked. His hands roamed all over his body, searching for any injury, but he found himself whole.Begins somewhere in Season 7 Episode 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I pretty much YOLO'd this this morning. I did have the concept before but for some reason, exam stressed brain wrote this now and I do have chapter 2 written down as well and an outline for the rest. I don't think I'll finish this all by Halloween because this will be at least 7 chapters, depending on how long the other chapters will turn out when I write, and I'm shit at multichapters but pray that I'll get this done before the year ends at least ahhahahhaa. Okay, I'll stop yapping now and let you read my crackshit.
> 
> *buries my head and peers at you*

Something was off.

Jaime woke in his room—everything seemingly calm and serene.

It wasn’t the soreness. He’d gone used to that courtesy of Bronn’s daily pummeling.

It wasn’t the throbbing headache. He’d gotten quite used to it, often waking up to nightmares. But he had had a good night’s sleep that night.

Now, _that_ was strange.

He’d rarely slept soundly as he did, but judging from the strong sunlight through his window, he knew he’d slept in. Something that was not a habit of his.

He tried to recall the events that happened yesterday. He recalled Euron Greyjoy coming to King’s Landing with the Martell paramour and her bastard. Jaime felt his blood boil of the taunts directed at him. Much later, Cersei went to him after going to visit the Dornish prisoners. Jaime shuddered at the thought of what she might have done to them, knowing Cersei’s wrath.

What had stunned him though was how insatiable she’d suddenly become. Battle lust Jaime understood but Cersei was no soldier. He had tried protesting when she opened his breeches, afraid of what in the dungeons inspired her sudden hunger for him, but he’d relented when her mouth was around his cock then stopped when he was about to come. He’d allowed her to lead him to bed where they fucked and spent himself in her. Afterward, she offered him a goblet of wine. Jaime had never understood her love for the stuff but he decided to humor her with a large gulp.

Then, his body had felt heavy until...

Jaime panicked. His hands roamed all over his body, searching for any injury, but he found himself whole.

_Whole._

_Hands._

Jaime stilled, then closed his eyes. He lifted his right arm. Slowly, he cracked his eyelids open and released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

In place of the stump he’s long used to seeing, is a hand—an actual hand made of flesh and not the gold like the one he hated more than his stump.

He willed the fingers to bend and to his amazement, they obeyed him, though slow and still shaky. For a moment, he wanted to weep. The dreams of him being whole had long stopped when he’d finally stopped mourning for the hand he’d lost but the yearning for his sword hand had never stopped. He thought he’d never get his hand back but the proof was there before his eyes, five fingers wriggling at his command.

Then it dawned on him it most likely wasn’t his hand. He watched the stitches on his wrist while recalling the image of his rotting hand in Harrenhal. He was certain it had been disposed by Bolton’s men somewhere.

This was all wrong. So wrong. He could feel it.

His train of thought was interrupted when his door opened. His mood did not improve when he saw that his visitor had been Qyburn. No doubt the man was behind this.

“Good, you’re awake,” the man said too kindly, as if he were talking to a child with a fever. “You’ve been out for a few days. How’s your hand?”

Then another strange thing happened. Pulled by the right hand, Jaime shot out of bed then wrapped itself around the non maester’s throat. It wasn’t quite hard, as if the hand knew Jaime wanted him to speak.

“What have you done to me?” Jaime growled.

To the maester’s credit, he sounded calm when he explained.

“The queen wanted you to give you a gift before you march onto Highgarden. She thought it would’ve been easier to just give you the Milk of the Poppy then surprise you. She assured me you’d be quite happy to get your right hand back.” _Except it’s not mine_. A finger twitched on Qyburn’s neck but the maester, completely oblivious, kept talking. “You’re quite fortunate some other curious maester had mostly figured it out for me. Her Grace simply funded me in perfecting it and it was great timing I completed my research before you were heading off to the Reach.”

The hand squeezed tighter, making the maester cough.

“Where did you get the hand?” he asked brusquely.

“N-no one o-of imp-port, m’l-lord. S-some hung-gry F-fleab-bottom p-paup-per s-since no pr-prison-ner m-mat-tched y-your hand.”

The hand tightened even further and the maester’s calm demeanor vanished as he was choking. Then he started thinking. Cersei wouldn’t like it if he killed her little maester. He’s useful as well. He did design the scorpion.

With great difficulty, he finally made the right hand release the maester. The small man dropped on all fours and gasped for air.

“Get out!” Jaime barked.

“But m’lord I need to make sure your hand—”

“I said leave before I change my mind about sparing you!”

Qyburn scrambled to his feet and left without so much as a bow. Jaime breathed in and out before finally making himself look at the hand once more. He was certain the maester wanted to test it even further but Jaime didn’t want to be anywhere near that sick fuck. They already lost a few days. He’ll simply have to train with Bronn on the road.

He opened and closed the fingers. Despite the movement being easier to do than before, it still felt wrong.

Jaime gave out a frustrated huff. _I might as well make use of the damned thing anyway._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Attack on Highgarden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the tags a bit to hopefully have a better understanding of the content. Damn, I hope ya'll aren't that disappointed with the way I'm going with this. XD
> 
> Most of the speculations will be answered in this chapter. :P
> 
> Unbeta'd and only went through one run-through with this. XD

Throughout Jaime’s life, he’d been stared at for different reasons—his name, his looks, his white cloak, his unsavory reputation, his stump, his golden hand.

Now, the _hand_.

Jaime should’ve been used to the curious eyes trained on him but it still made him ill-at-ease. He felt like a mummer, the character depending on the owner of the gaze.

At the moment, he was some wonder of nature who did the impossible. It was quite a stupid description, really. There was nothing natural about the new hand. Soldiers whispered but stopped immediately as soon as he was within earshot.

At least they still saw him as their commander.

Bronn, however, was keen to the gossip around the campfire and somehow saw it fit to share what he heard while they were sparring. The man was an even worse gossip than fishwives.

“Most do agree that the chainless maester was behind this. I do as well.”

Jaime shrugged as he anticipated the sellsword’s next move. Bronn dropped his arm though.

“You fookin’ Lannisters!” he exclaimed. “You’ve actually bought a fookin’ miracle and you’re still not satisfied. What fookin’ else do you want in your life?”

Jaime had tried to get excited. He was going back to battle with two functioning hands. The hand amazingly functioned normally, as if it really were his own hand, but whenever he tried to use a sword with it, it became tired. The closer they were in Highgarden, the more it didn’t want to cooperate. He was doing the techniques as well as his right once did, but it lacked the power.

Coupled with the uncooperative hand were his confused thoughts. It wasn’t just the hand that felt wrong. It was the whole thing. The Tyrells, along with Uncle Kevan and many innocents, have died by Cersei’s hand, burned to ashes in wildfire. Now they were sacking the very place where the last Tyrell resided. He knew it was purely business, yet it didn’t stop the sour taste in his mouth when he was reminded of the burning bodies and Tommen blaming himself for not stopping it.

The hand dropped his sword to the dirt, tugging him away from the hidden practice spot they found. Jaime got better in controlling his hand’s impulses but this time, he allowed himself to be dragged back to camp, ignoring Bronn’s protests.

…….

Jaime and the men with him poured into the main gates of Highgarden. The men ahead had already taken care of most of the Tyrell soldiers but there were still those determined. One had slipped past the soldiers in front of Jaime and was now running toward him. Jaime readied his sword, gripped tight by the hand. The soldier was obviously unskilled. Jaime wasn’t even sure how he survived the attack because he was so open. Even Jaime’s left hand could have easily taken him.

He readied his sword, ready to make the kill.

His blade blew past the soldier.

Jaime couldn’t believe it. It was such an easy kill, he could’ve done it with his eyes closed.

His confusion might have left him just as blind because he hadn’t noticed the same soldier about to kill him until Bronn showed up, holding up his bloody blade.

“The fook are you doing?” Bronn growled.

“The damned hand won’t obey me.”

The hand was even worse now. It was twitching and jerking. The fingers closing tightly on the hilt, suddenly let go of the blade. Thankfully, Bronn was there to catch it by the hilt.

“Let it obey you… or use your left hand… I don’t fookin’ know! Don’t just stay idle!”

Jaime cursed. The hand was still shaking badly. So he switched the sword to his left hand.

The battle was won quickly, but all throughout that short period of time, the stupid hand seemed to get in the way of his already unskilled left hand. It was almost amusing if he hadn’t been nearly skewered to death several times. Bronn had been the only thing preventing that. Jaime was thankful the man wanted to get paid very badly.

…….

His hand slowly began to still when he approached Olenna Tyrell’s room.

“How?” the Tyrell matriarch asked, gesturing to the flexing fingers on the hand.

“Lannisters shit gold,” he answered, not  wanting to explain himself.

“It’s that chainless maester of your sister’s I’m sure. I won’t ask further. I doubt you can explain anyway. You can’t even explain the other abominations of your own house.”

The hand flinched at that but quickly relaxed once more. As he poured wine for them both, it remained sure and steady. Its disposition was unchanged while he chatted with her amicably about mistakes and failures as if they were talking about the fine weather, not the inevitable plucking of the last gold rose of Highgarden. The hand was even well-behaved as Olenna described Joffrey as a cunt.

“I did unspeakable things to protect my family.”

That was when the hand twitched. It always did that when he was reminded of the green flames dancing over the ruins of the Sept of Baelor. Jaime had to exert much mental effort to push it away, even going so far as telling Olenna the future of peace and prosperity he dreamed of Westeros under Cersei’s reign.

“You love her. You really do love her. You poor fool.”

At that, it began jerking uncontrollably and only worsened from there. He countered Olenna. Trying to make himself appear the winner. He ignored the gnawing guilt he felt at the means of the younger Tyrells’ demise and appeared uncaring, unapologetic about his love for Cersei.

“She’s a disease. I regret my role in spreading it. You will, too.”

Jaime abruptly stood up.

“I think we’re done here.”

The Tyrell crone had no right to judge his choices. He was doing this because it was the best for the realm. Better than being ruled by the Mad King’s daughter who owned three full grown fire-breathing dragons.

 _Wildfire_ , a muffled screaming in his mind reminded him.

The hand was now slapping against his thigh, each blow harder than the previous. He had to hold it down with his left. Lady Tyrell snorted loudly in the most unlady-like fashion.

“Live with it. That is the consequence of your Lannister tendency to show off your wealth and power.”

Jaime did not want to give her the satisfaction of knowing he was forced to have that hand. Thankfully, he need not explain when she began inquiring of the manner of her death. The tremors slowly subsided as he proudly told her of him talking Cersei out of her more savage ideas.

The hand nearly went to a full stop at the shock in Olenna’s face. His steadier left hand was the one that brought out the poison and poured it into the wine, making sure to tap out every last drop. She looked grateful when he’d assured her of no pain.

Olenna thirstily gulped down all the contents of goblet even faster than he’d seen Cersei do.

Once she wiped her lips, the woman stared at him and began talking about Joffrey’s death. He knew something was wrong when she brought it up. The stilling hand began to clench, angry.

Once it dawned on him what it was, Olenna said, “Not at all what I intended.”

The clenched knuckle reached across the table, startling Olenna, but the table was far too large for him to grab her. The old bat composed herself and continued to speak while he willed his hand not to choke further grab her.

“You see, I had never seen the poison work before.”

Jaime was angry. So angry. But he restrained the hand with his left.

With a defiant look, she told him, “Tell Cersei. I want her to know it was me.”

Caging the wildly flailing hand between his left hand and chest, Jaime fled. When his left let go to open the door, the hand shot out, fingers making grabbing motions, almost like a rabid dog barking at everything that moved. He had to pull his right arm back in order to close the door then clutched the hand to his chest again as he walked with no specific location in mind, only to get away from the damned room.

Once he was sure he was far enough, he let the hand go and let it smash against the stone wall.

It wasn’t Joffrey’s death he was angry about.

 _Tyrion is innocent_ , his mind echoed like a mantra with every hit the hand landed on the stone.

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to say. Dr. Qyburnstein. That's all hahahaha


End file.
